


these apparitions haunt me so

by insomniaks (effervescently)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effervescently/pseuds/insomniaks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after S2 but before S3, as it was written before S3 aired.</p><p>John copes with Sherlock's death by leaving Baker Street. John's mind has a different coping method.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Just a warning: English is my second language. I apologize for any mistakes - the writing style is intentional, though)

It's been 667 days, John thinks. His eyes are still closed but he can see soft morning light through his eyelids.  667 days since you died.You ought've left me by now.

 

He opens his eyes and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock is on the left side of his bed, looking at him gently.  He first woke up to Sherlock by his side after Sherlock's funeral. The one he missed, preferring to stay at Baker Street for one last day.

 

The vision of him followed him around. First to Lestrade's couch, then Harry's flat, and finally his own.

 

Mycroft  (meaning Anthea) sneakily left an ad in Harry's postal box. It was a printout from one of those realty sites. The pictures showed a nice, small flat. It had lots of sunlight, cozy furniture and the most important feature was that it was miles away from Baker Street.

 

He couldn't leave all of 221B behind when he moved, so he replaced the brand new chairs in the flat with his and Sherlock's.  The skull was also there, creepily smiling from his mantel. Beside the skull, Sherlock's violin and a number of his CDs on the shelf.

 

The first morning in his new... residence (Not home.Never again, without him) he stood up too quickly and banged his head on the sloped ceiling above his bed.

 

"Beginner's mistake,especially for an ex-soldier like you. Always be aware of your surroundings."

 

Hearing Sherlock's voice made his heart miss a beat. His chest felt hollow.

 

John slowly turned around, his gaze touching everything in the room before it touched Sherlock.

 

No, not Sherlock.  The product of John's sick mind.

 

This Sherlock was smiling - positively glowing with life. He was dressed in his uniform

 

black suit, designer shoes, crisp shirt - first button left undone, his coat

 

oh his coat

 

It was what finally broke the fantasy for John.

 

That coat. His coat.

The coat he spent hours scrubbing the blood out of, until his hands bled. John sat on the tiled bathroom floor, watching his own blood mix with his before going down the drain.

 

John winced from the memory, his knuckles burning with imaginary sores.

He reached for him. He touched Sherlock's left cheek and the air where it was supposed to be was warm, at least John's mind made it so.

 

 John swallowed before speaking.

 

"It's hard to focus when you are clinically depressed."

"Don't be ridiculous, you are not depressed."

"I kind of am, actually. You know, you usually get diagnosed after losing too much weight in one week, not sleeping, not speaking, not feeling. I was numb after you left me. Lestrade thought I was going to kill myself - he took my guns, my painkillers. I was thinking of doing it, actually."

 

Imaginary Sherlock kept quiet after that. For days he would appear  in glimpses - blink and he's gone. He would always be in the corner of John's eye.

 

After a month he started talking to him again. They would giggle at wrongly solved cases on the news and watch crap telly. John even played classical music from the endless collection of CDs Sherlock had owned so his imaginary friend could pretend to play his violin.

 

They even slept on the same bed. John cocooned in blankets and the image of Sherlock hovering above the covers. Sometimes he could touch this fantastic vision, his fingers tangling in curly dark hair. Lips meeting. John's soft body meeting Sherlock's jagged edges.

 

After a while (a year), John started dating again. It was mostly to avoid Harry's questions (You miss him, don't you?  Like a piece of you was ripped out? I felt like that when Clara left me.), but he was hoping he could meet someone to clear his mind. Someone who was nothing like Sherlock, invading every breathing moment of his life, claiming every fiber of his being as his own.

 

He met Mary at a book club meeting. He never thought he'd set foot in one, but Lestrade said there was a lot of single women so he thought he'd give it a shot.

 

They were chatting over a really good novel about two kids with cancer when he asked her out.

She said yes.

 

A year later, they were engaged.

She moved in with him, her things crowding his flat, his safe space. She left the mantel alone - the skull, the CDs, the violin - they were all untouched. He loved her for that. He loved her gentle hands, the confident smile and the way she'd  hug him, all warmth, and curves, and vanilla perfume, and nothing like Sherlock.

 

This particular Saturday she had some extra work in her office so she left early.

There were still traces of her perfume in the air. (three sprays on the neck, one on each wrist)

 

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

 

" I haven't seen you in a while." he told him, snickering.

"I missed you."

"You haven't appeared on my bedside for three days. That's hardly a long time."  Christ. Now his imagination was getting clingy.

 

"What are you on about, John?" Sherlock sat up on the bed, obviously confused.

John walked over to that side of the bed.

 

He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, finding out this vision was one of the rare physical ones.John made a mental note, making sure to make good use of it.

 

Sherlock shivered underneath his hands, his eyelids fluttering a few times before his gaze refocused on John's face.

 

John licked his lips before answering.

 

"You know. You show up by my bed every morning, I touch your face and cry. You kiss me and disappear. I cry some more. It's become a routine, almost."

 

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed.

 

"I can't seem to recall memories of ever doing that."

 

His baritone voice went through John's spine. Nerves fired all over his body. His hands reached out without any conscious thought.

 

"Maybe this will help you remember."

 

His fingers made contact with Sherlock's silky skin. He traced the line of his jaw, his cheekbones.

One hand went through his hair. The other pulled his face towards John.

 Their lips met.  Sherlock froze. As did his body, his breathing, time. 

 

A few seconds passed, a few eons passed.

 

Sherlock's mouth opened a little as he gripped John with so much force it hurt.

Long fingers spread across his back.

 

John kissed this sick, perverted image of Sherlock his mind created hundreds of times. This one seemed almost real.

 

Sherlock was warm against him, his body soft where John was used to feeling bones.

His mouth was warm and wet, so so so so perfect.

 

He threw himself at Sherlock so hard they fell back on the bed, bouncing on the mattress a bit.

They kissed again, tongues touching.

 

Sherlock moaned into John's mouth a little. John smiled into the kiss.

 

His hands wandered under that sleek black suit jacket, smoothing out the perfectly ironed shirt over Sherlock's soft stomach.Sherlock watched, his eyes half-closed, his gaze alert.

 

 He popped button after button, until he was rewarded with the sight of his porcelain white chest. It was speckled here and there with spots, but it was otherwise unblemished and smooth. Sherlock's chest slowly rose and fell as he breathed, his rythm hitching here and there as John kissed some part of him.

 

John's mind was spinning. Was this cheating? Does it count if I'm cheating with a vision of my dead friend? My dead friend, the one I was in love with. The one I had been planning to tell about it but he threw himself off  a building before I told him

 

oh god did he know he must have deduced it before he was flying dead dead blood on the pavement cold earth crying at your grave waking up next to you touching you kissing you warm warm perfect-

 

"John, love. You in here?"  - a woman's voice came from behind the door.

 

John didn't hear.

 

his mind was all about sherlock, sherlock, sherlock

 

he didn't hear the door opening, the soft footsteps

 

He heard the screaming, though.

 

His head shot up to see Mary's horrified face.

He'd be horrified too, if he caught her snogging air.

 

He looked at her. She was focused on the space that Sherlock occupied in his mind.

 

"You." She hissed.

"You. You made him suffer. Do you know what he was like when I found him? Do you? Do you think you could just pop right back and take my place next to my husband? After what you did?"

 She slapped Sherlock so hard he actually flinched.

 

Perfect, statuesque, cold, icy Sherlock flinching.

Living. In his bed. With no shirt.

 

John jumped off the bed like an electric current passed through it.

 

"What. WHAT. WHAT THE HELL?" he stammered.

 

Mary just stood there. Hurt. Sad.

 

Her face went from kicked puppy to steely resolution in a fleeting second. That's the face John loved most on her.

 

"Just because you were in love with him doesn't mean you get a free pass at cheating."

 

John blinked.

 

"Even if dead people become living again. I don't care. I'm going out for the day. Get your things out of the flat."

 

She went off, all vanilla perfume and blonde hair bouncing and doors slamming. She didn't look back.

 

John didn't move for a long time. Not when he heard Sherlock getting up. Not when he heard his heavy leather shoes clacking on the floorboards. Not when he touched his shoulder. Not when his thin arms wrapped around him. John exhaled lightly but didn't move otherwise.

 

The sun went down. A few (hundred) heartbeats shook John's chest. Moonlight shone through the window.

 

Sherlock unwrapped himself after a while and brought out some black garbage bags.

He started opening drawers, pulling out anything that looked like men's clothes into a bag.

 

He was thorough and metodical., like always.

 

Sherlock  went into the bathroom. John could hear toiletries clinking against each other as they feel into the second bag.

 

A small duffel bag was pulled out. Sherlock's violin was placed inside. The skull as well. No room for CDs, though.

 

Sherlock untied his scarf and put it around John's neck. Sherlock forcefully dressed him in a jacket he found in the hallway.

 

John was pulled through his flat. Bedroom, hallway, living room. Lights off, out the door.

Door locked, key in the flower pot.

 

Sherlock's arms around him. Sherlock drying John's tears in the cab. Checking into a hotel.

One room, one king sized bed.

 

Warm shower, Sherlock with him. Sherlock feeding him. Sherlock holding him close as John got the emotional reaction out of his system.

John finally hugging him back. John softly snoring in Sherlock's arms. John whispering Sherlock's  name in his dreams.

 

Sherlock whispering his name in return.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some kisses, some words

John woke up with a soft groan. He rubbed his eyes and stretched.  
  
He ignored Sherlock's presence until he remembered yesterday.  
  
Oh. oh.  
  
alive alive alive alive alive alive  
  
He just stared at Sherlock. He couldn't move.  
  
"Why?"  he croaked.  
"It was the only way."  Sherlock's eyes were soft and pleading.  
  
"The only way to beat Moriarty was to leave me thinking you were dead?" John stood up groggily and started to pace the room.  
   
Sherlock followed him around the charmingly decorated hotel room.  
  
"It was the only way to beat Moriarty and save your life. And Lestrade's. And Mrs. Hudson's.  
There were snipers waiting for me to turn into a coward. They had to see me jump - when Moriarty killed himself, he made sure I had to jump. I could only hope my plan would turn out perfectly. To think otherwise..."  
  
"You would have actually jumped to your death."  
  
"Yes. But that wasn't worrying me, I almost died hundreds of times."  
  
"I knew it, though."  
  
"What, John?"  
  
"That you weren't a fake.That you didn't kill yourself because your lies were exposed."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"I believed in you when no one else did. I was the only one who knew you, really knew you. But I still had doubts,you know- you were too brilliant. Your mind was laser focused, your movements perfectly controlled. Too perfect.Besides, it was easier to believe you were a fraud than to think you did this to me knowing...how I felt about you. You must've known, you see everything."  
  
" I knew you fancied me. I mean,who gives you bedroom eyes in the company of a corpse? But I figured you'd be fine. Find a new life. New friends, a nice girl or man. Forget running across London with me."  
  
"Fancied you? I bloody love you! How could you not have noticed?" John was getting a bit red in the face.  
  
"I have a history with broken hearts because of too much sentiment. I didn't want to come up with a declaration of love only to have you push me away.You know how I am with emotional matters. I have a hard time teetering between what I want to say and what is acceptable."  
  
"What would be acceptable right now, Sherlock?" Sherlock half sat up, leaning on one elbow. Looking at John with those sleepy eyes.  
  
"It would be acceptable for me to apologize. For the pain I caused you. It would be acceptable for you to call Mary and beg her to take you back. It would be acceptable for us to be friends again."  
  
John swallowed. Sherlock stood up and walked up to John who was standing by the window.  
  
"But that isn't what you want to say."  
"No.  I still want to apologize, John. There really wasn't a painless option. If there was any other way.." His expression was pained.  
"What do you want to tell me, Sherlock?"  
"If I was brave, I would tell you to forget Mary. I would tell you I didn't want to be your friend any more. I would tell you to close your eyes."  
  
John closed his eyes. Waiting.  
  
Sherlock traced the lines on John's face. He counted the freckles on his nose. He created constellations amongst them.  
  
He was so close to him. Two years. I've been hiding for two years. Without you. Sherlock's mind was spinning, for the first time in his life he was speechless.  
  
Sherlock could smell the hotel soap on John's skin  and a trace of cologne left over from yesterday.  
Their lips touched. They kissed, consuming each other.  
  
It was two years worth of kisses, two years worth of pain.  
They gasped for air, delirious. Their clothes disappeared, somehow.  
  
John would never forget the way Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were almost cutting through him. Analysing, no doubt. Every reaction of John's documented in his gorgeous mind for future reference.  
  
John didn't have a mental palace full of data about Sherlock.  
His archive looked more like a hastily scribbled note or two.  
  
gets off on puzzles  
  
likes John pulling rank (sub??)  
  
???????  
  
Mentally, John was scrambling through his notes while Sherlock was busy lightly biting John's shoulder.  
  
John noticed he avoided touching scar tissue - he knew he couldn't feel much, so why bother?  
  
Sherlock's fingers traced the outline of it.  
  
 John could almost feel his fingertips when they glided over the desecrated skin. He sighed when those long, gentle fingers disappeared and reappeared on his back, tracing the outline of his spine.  
  
John's back was soft and pale. So very different from when they first met and when he still had his Afghanistan tan.  
  
He was painfully aware of their physical differences - how taller and leaner Sherlock was, how he had almost no wrinkles around his eyes and no pain in his body.  
  
John slid both of his hands around Sherlock's waist. He couldn't see but he distinctly felt his ribs under pale, milky skin. When one of his hands had wandered upward he felt vertebrae poking, but he wasn't concerned. As a doctor. As a friend, (boyfriend?? lover? partner? colleague?) he made  a firm decision to cook at least one meal a day for Sherlock. He'd probably have to force feed him, though.  
  
He chuckled at the mental image of Sherlock squirming in his chair as John spoon-fed him and the sound of his own soft laughter brought him back to reality. Sherlock must have misinterpreted his reaction because his brows were furrowed. Confused. He thought John was laughing at him.  
  
Ridiculous.  
  
John firmly caught Sherlock's face in his hands and brought him down to his lips. They staggered backwards, legs hitting the bed frame.  
  
They fell on the bed, never realizing what they were doing exactly. All that John could think about was sherlock sherlock sherlock his hands on him those eyes oh those lips  
mmm talented  
  
John's mind (and body) turned to jelly.  
  
He couldn't think or speak.  His only reaction to Sherlock's lean hands roaming his body was a series of sighs and moans escaping his lips.  
  
Sherlock's mind was as agile as ever, apparently. He had no doubt pulled some data out of his 'John likes it when...' database,  probably collected from his browsing history, and was methodically applying his knowledge.  
  
John squirmed and kicked and shuddered and shouted, his fists on Sherlock's back, chest, in his hair.  
  
They kissed again. Not an affectionate peck on the lips, but the kind of kiss that made you question reality - why on earth would anyone want to do anything that isn't kissing Sherlock Holmes?  
  
John nearly whined when Sherlock broke apart, leaning over the edge of the bed.  
  
He rummaged through John's belongings until he found his toiletry bag. He pulled out a barely used bottle of lubricant (oil based- dissolves condoms- they'd been trying to conceive in the rare times John and Mary had intercourse) and tossed it over to John.  
  
John blinked, confused momentarily. Sherlock smiled at him- a tentative, shy smile. Almost the smile of a...virgin?  
  
"No." John breathed.  
"You're a virgin."  
  
"You would call me that, yes. Though I've had my share of promiscuous activity, mostly for cases and data collection, apparently you're a virgin until you've had penetrative sex." He shrugged. His dark curls bounced lightly when his head hit the pillow. His face was a guarded expression.  
  
"If you don't want to we don't-" John started, but was interrupted by a wave of Sherlock's  hand.  
"I do. Believe me. Just not-"  
"Today. You're not ready."  
  
John's voice was full of understanding ( and a twinge of disappointment, too.)  
  
Sherlock almost rolled his eyes.  
  
"I am. I truly cannot wait. But I do not wish for it to happen as a reaction to yesterday's events. You are emotionally compromised . I don't want  to use you to fulfill my pubescent fantasies."  
  
John raised his eyebrows.  
  
"You have fantasies?"  
  
"Of course. Loads. I have notebooks filled with ideas I got while data collecting. They're back in Baker Street - I can't wait to try them out."  
"Me too." John's heart was fluttering, his mind bursting with possibilities.  
  
Sherlock's eyes were alight with glee and curiosity. He made puppy eyes at John.  
  
"Will you allow me to keep a spreadsheet?"  
"I though those were for research?"  
"Yes. And you are my favorite subject. I already have a few of them from 2 years ago - mostly analyzing your choice of tea and jumpers with a few variables like the time of year, girlfriend at the time, amount of time spent with me and said girlfriend, etc."  
  
"And?"  
  
"You wear your beige jumper on Tuesdays.You drink Earl Gray with me, regular English breakfast with girlfriends. If you're going out with Gavin, no Graham-"  
  
"Greg."  
  
"-Lestrade, you drink gunfire."  
  
John smiled affectionately. Who else would bother noticing such minute details of his life but Sherlock?  
  
"You are bloody adorable, you know that?"  
  
"You are the only one who appears to notice." Sherlock said with mock sadness.  
  
"It wouldn't hurt your business if you  were more amicable, though."  
  
"The Cute Detective does have a ring to it, doesn't it? Don't be ridiculous, John. If my clients wanted to look at cute things they needn't look farther than you."  
  
"Oh, shut up ."  
  
"Oh, but I mean it. You are cute, and friendly, and kind, and caring, and everything I do not like on people. I've broken all my rules for you."  
  
"Screw the rules."  
  
"I intend to. John, you are the exception to every rule I set up. You've broken the pathetic little structure of a life I've had until I met you. You are the most important thing. My only exception."  
  
"And you are mine."  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gunfire is tea laced with rum, serving which was and is a tradition in the British Army


End file.
